Carolingian reform and rendering account for others

One concept I’ve been thinking about a lot when translating Jonas of Orléans’ lay mirror De institutione laicali (DIL) is that of “rendering account to God”. “Rendering account” is a standard phrase in classical Latin, normally in a form based on ‘rationem reddere’ (although other verbs can be used). It’s also used in the Vulgate several times, including the following (translations from the Douay-Rheims 1899 American edition, as that’s closer to the Vulgate):

Daniel 6:2 Et super eos principes tres, ex quibus Daniel unus erat: ut satrapae illis redderent rationem, et rex non sustineret molestiam.

And three princes over them, of whom Daniel was one: that the governors might give an account to them, and the king might have no trouble.

Matthew 25:19 Post multum vero temporis venit dominus servorum illorum, et posuit rationem cum eis.

[Parable of talents]: But after a long time the lord of those servants came, and reckoned with them.

This is a Sumerian talent weight, which is probably much smaller (but prettier) than the New Testament talent

Luke 16: 2: Et vocavit illum, et ait illi: Quid hoc audio de te? redde rationem villicationis tuae: jam enim non poteris villicare.

[Parable of unjust steward]: And he called him, and said to him: How is it that I hear this of thee? give an account of thy stewardship: for now thou canst be steward no longer.

Romans 14: 12 Itaque unusquisque nostrum pro se rationem reddet Deo.

Therefore every one of us shall render account to God for himself.

Hebrews 13:17 Obedite praepositis vestris, et subjacete eis. Ipsi enim pervigilant quasi rationem pro animabus vestris reddituri, ut cum gaudio hoc faciant, et non gementes: hoc enim non expedit vobis.

Obey your prelates, and be subject to them. For they watch as being to render an account of your souls; that they may do this with joy, and not with grief. For this is not expedient for you.

The last verse from Hebrews particularly interests me, because it’s about rendering account to God for the sins of others. But I think the Douay-Rheims translation is slightly inaccurate here, not quite getting the “quasi”: the prelates/elders watch *as if* they are going to render an account for their subordinates’ souls.

It’s this responsibility before God for other people’s sins that I’m particularly interested in, and I want to cite three passages from Jonas’ works that show different groups being told about this:

1) De institutione regia (DIR), c. 1

Sciendum omnibus fidelibus est quia uniuersalis ecclesia corpus est Christi et eius caput isdem est Christus et in ea duae principaliter extant eximiae personae, sacerdotalis           uidelicet et regalis tantoque est praestantior sacerdotalis,         quanto pro ipsis regibus Deo est rationem redditura.

Et si, quod absit, ab eo aliquomodo exorbitaueritis, pontificali studio humiliter admonendo,et salubriter procurando, oportunum consultum saluti uestrae conferamus, ut non de silentio taciturnitatis nostrae damnemur, sed magis de sollertissima cura et admonitione salutifera, remunerari a Christo mereamur.

All the faithful are to know that the universal church is the body of Christ and its head is the same Christ and in it there exist two particular persons, that is the priestly and the royal, and the priestly person excels that much more due to the fact that it is going to render account to God for kings themselves.

….

And if, may it not happen, you [the king] should deviate from it [God’s will] in some way, we would bear suitable counsel for your salvation, from episcopal zeal, by humble admonishing and beneficial attention, so that we might not be damned for our silence, but rather may merit to be rewarded by Christ for our most skilled care and salvific admonition.

2) DIR 5

Valde enim exigit necessitas ut, quia ipse procul dubio rex aequissimo iudici de commisso sibi ministerio rationem redditurus est, ut etiam singuli, qui sub eo constituti sunt ministri, diligentissime ab eo inquirantur, ne ipse pro eis iudicium incurrat diuinum.

It is very greatly necessary that the king himself, who without doubt is going to render account to the most equitable judge [God] about the ministry committed to him, should make very diligent enquiries about the individual ministers who are constituted under him, lest he may incur divine judgement for them.

3)  DIL 2: 16 on the need for couples to exercise pastoral ministry in their houses

Existunt in utroque sexu, qui in sibi subjectis plus animarum lucrum, quam commodum terrenum quaerunt: sunt etiam e contrario nonnulli potentes, et quaedam nobiles matronae, qui ab eis quaestum tantum terrenum avare exigunt, et salvationem animarum illorum aut dissimulant, aut certe penitus parvipendunt: putantes se nullum in illorum lapsibus periculum subituros, nullamque pro eis Deo ratiotionem reddituros;

There are those in each sex, who seek in those subject to themselves more profit of souls than earthly reward; there are also on the contrary some powerful men and certain noble matronae who greedily demand only earthly profit from these, and either neglect the salvation of their souls, or certainly altogether take it lightly; thinking themselves to be going to come under no perils from their [subordinates’] lapses and going to render no account for them to God.

What interests me is the difference in responsibility for other people’s sins in the first passage as compared to the second and third. Priests are responsible for their own actions, but not ultimately those of kings, even if they supposedly render account for their souls. As long as the priests have given the right warnings, they’re OK. In other words, the focus is on intentions/inputs. On the other hand, both kings and noble laypeople are implicitly held to strict liability, judged on outcomes. If their subordinates sin, they are to blame.

In one way, that seems logical: kings and domini/dominae have coercive power over their subordinates; bishops don’t have that over kings. But I think it also sets up a noticeable difference in how someone from these different groups might interpret their moral responsibility for others.

I’m also interested because while the idea of bishops rendering account to God for kings is a long-standing one (Jonas cites Pope Gelasius from the end of the fifth century), I can’t so far find a lot of earlier references to kings or laymen rendering account for others’ sins, rather than their own. The king’s absolute responsibility is in Isidore of Seville, Sententiae 3-53:

Cognoscant principes saeculi Deo debere se rationem propter ecclesiam, quam a Christo tuendam suscipiunt. Nam siue augeatur pax et disciplina ecclesiae per fideles principes, siue soluatur, ille ab eis rationem exigit, qui eorum potestati suam ecclesiam credidit

Let the princes of the world know they owe an account to God for the church, which they have received from Christ for defending. For if the peace and discipline of the church is increased or removed through faithful princes, he who entrusted his church to their power, will demand an account from them.

I haven’t so far found an earlier reference to the absolute accountability of the king to God for the sins of his people: I’d be very interested if someone finds one.

As far as laypeople go, their responsibility for the sins of their household isn’t found in the late antique handbooks for laity that Kate Cooper discusses in The Fall of the Roman Household. But it does crop up in Paulinus of Aquilea’s Liber exhortationis c. 9:

Quaeso, mi frater, quaeso, omnibus tibi subjectis et bonae voluntatis in domo tua a majore usque ad minimum, amorem et dulcedinem regni coelestis, amaritudinem et timorem gehennae annunties, et de eorum salute sollicitus ac vigil existas: quia pro omnibus tibi subjectis, qui in domo tua sunt, rationem Domino reddes.

I beg, my brother, I beg that you announce to all those subject to you and of good will in your house, from the greater to the lesser, the love and sweetness of the eternal kingdom, the bitterness and fear of hell, and that you are solicitous and alert about their salvation, since you will render account to God for all those subject to you.

All this suggests to me that it’s a particularly Carolingian concept to be rendering account to God in this absolute way for subordinates, without any recognition that “you tried hard” is enough. The distinction becomes even clearer in the frequent use of the phrase in Alcuin’s letters. For example, here is Alcuin, Epistola 10 to Arn of Salzburg (MGH Epp 4, p. 36), from 790, with an input-focused approach:

Obsecro iterum iterumque ammoneo, ut te ipsum consideres…coram quam terribili iudice rationem redditurus sis non solum de te, sed etiam de singulis animabus, quae tuo commissae sunt regimini. Idcirco non segniter labora; praedica oportune, importune id est volenti et nolenti, argue, obsecra, increpa; ut merearis audire a domino Deo tuo: “Euge serve bone et fidelis, quia in pauca fuisti fidelis, supra multa te constituam: intra in gaudium domini Dei tui”.

I beg and again and again admonish you that you consider this…and before what terrible judge you are going to have to render that account, not only about yourself, but also about the individual souls committed to your rule. Therefore do not work lazily, preach at opportune and inopportune times, that is to the willing and unwilling, argue, beg, rebuke; so that you may merit to hear from the Lord your God: ‘Well done, you good and faithful servant, since you were faithful in small things, I will set you over great things: enter into the joy of your Lord.’

Alcuin, Epistola 32, p 73 to a “mother and daughter in Christ” (793-795?), result-focused:

Subiectamque vobis filiam in omni timore Dei educate, quasi rationem redditurae pro singulorum animabus.

Educate the daughter subject to you in all fear of God, as if you are going to render account for individual souls.

I’m particularly struck by a passage he addressed to Charlemagne in around 798:

Alcuin Epistola 136 (MGH Epp. 4 , p. 208), again talking about the parable of the talents (Matthew 25: 14-30):

Nec enim hoc solis sacerdotibus vel clericis audiendum ibi arbitreris, sed etiam bonis laicis, et bene in opere Dei laborantibus dicendum esse credas; et maxime his, qui in sublimioribus positi sunt saeculi dignitatibus, quorum conversatio bona et vitae sanctitas et ammonitoria aeternae salutis verba suis subiectis praedicatio poterit esse. Nam unusquisque de pecunia domini sui, quam accepit, rationem redditurus erit in die iudicii; et qui plus laborat, plus mercedis accipiet. Quapropter, dilectissime et honorande ecclesiarum Christi defensor et rector, tuae sanctissimae sapietiae venerabile studium alios ammonendo exhortetur, alios castigando corrigat, alios vitae disciplinis erudiat; ut, omnibus omnia factus, ex omnibus mercedem habere merearis perpetuam; ut cum magna et laudabili populorum multitudine gloriosus in conspectu domini Dei tui appareas.

For you should not think that this [Well done, good and faithful servant] will be heard there only by priests and clerics, but you should believe it also to be said to good laypeople and those labouring well in the work of God. For every individual is going to render account on the day of judgement about the pecunia of his lord, which he has received; and he who should labour more will receive more reward. Therefore, O most beloved and honourable defender and ruler (rector) of the churches of God, let the venerable zeal of your holy wisdom exhort others by admonishing, correct others by punishing, teach others by the disciplines of life, so that, made all things to all, from all you may merit to have eternal reward: so that you may appear glorious in the sight of your God, with a great and laudable multitude of the people.

Here the input and output approaches are combined: the one who works harder will be successful. Though this specific letter is from 798 and so relatively far into Charlemagne’s reform programme, it seems likely that Alcuin was expressing similar sentiments earlier on. What particularly interests me is that the responsibility for subordinates’ souls is here made peculiarly concrete: they will be with Charlemagne in heaven, in a way that the king might well have understood as his retinue at a banquet (as heaven was often conceptualised).What does an ambitious, competitive, practical king do if he’s told that he’s responsible for the souls of his subjects, in the context of a parable where the slave who has most money and makes most with it, is given even more as a reward (he gets to rule over “many things” and is also given the one talent of the bad slave)?

I’ve written before about Charlemagne’s “instrumental rationality”, the way he was concerned about the effects of church reform more than adhering to the traditions of specific churches (even the church of Rome). I wonder if this feeling that “all souls matter” inspired at least some of his determination that even the humblest of his subjects be made into a better Christian, even if it meant changing the customary way of doing things? After all, he knew what it meant to render account: here he is talking about his stewards in Capitulare Aquisgranense (MGH Cap 1, no 77, p. 172, c. 19):

Ut vilicus bonus, sapiens et prudens in opus nostrum eligatur, qui sciat rationem misso nostro reddere et servitium perficere, prout loca sunt, aedificia emendent, nutriant porcos, iumenta, animalia, ortos, apes, aucas, pullos, vivaria cum pisces, vennas, molina, stirpes, terram aratoriam studeant femare

Let a good, wise and prudent steward be chosen for our work, who knows to render account to our missus and to accomplish our service, according to where the places are, let them improve buildings, nourish pigs, draft animals, animals, gardens, bees, geese, chickens, vivaria with fish, watercourses, mills, plants, let them take care to fertilize plough land

What Charlemagne and his missus are interested in here is results, not intentions: there would obviously be times when poor weather, pests etc would reduce the yield, but he’d expect the steward to adapt to changing conditions, not just do what “tradition” demanded. That’s why he specifies the steward needs to be wise and prudent as well as morally good. I think this same focus on outcomes would affect how he understood Alcuin talking about rendering account to God.

Of course, the fact that Alcuin said something to Charlemagne, doesn’t necessarily mean he heeded him, but there is specific evidence for him doing so, found in the oath that Charlemagne made all free men of twelve or over swear in 802. As well as the oath itself, the capitulary includes several chapters on what the oath means, and it starts:

Capitulare missorum generale 802, MGH Cap 1, no. 33, p. 92, c. 3:

Primum, ut unusquisque et persona propria se in sancto Dei servitio secundum Dei preceptum et secundum sponsionem suam pleniter conservare studeat secundum intellectum et vires suas, quia ipse domnus imperator non omnibus singulariter necessariam potest exhibere curam et disciplinam.

First, that every individual take care to keep both his own person in service to holy God according to the precept of God, and keep himself fully according to his promise, according to his understanding and power, since the same lord emperor cannot provide the necessary care and discipline to all individually.

It goes on further for a number of chapters explaining all the things this entails, including not only offences against Charlemagne and the fisc, but also attacks on churches, widows and orphans and on justice in cases. The oath of 802 is in some ways a very strange one, going much further than the original oath ordered by Charlemagne in 789, which simply promised fidelity to Charles and his sons (Duplex legationis edictum 789, MGH Cap 1, no. 23, p. 63, c. 18). But the 802 oath makes perfect sense if Charlemagne really did believe that he was responsible for the moral behaviour of all his (male) subjects.

You can see the same assumption of hierarchical liability/responsibility in many of Charlemagne’s references to lords, such as his demand in Capitula per missos cognita facienda 803×813, Cap I no 67, p. 157 c. 4 that the missi report how many “outsiders” (adventiti) there are in their missaticum, along with their names, where they’re from and who their seniores are. A chain of command becomes a moral chain of command. It’s easy to see how this absolute responsibility before the ruler/God could also be transferred to the household, especially given Biblical demands for hierarchical order there (see Alcuin’s reference to a “mother”/”daughter” above).

The use of this image of rendering account to God for others’ sins wasn’t inevitable: there were times when even Alcuin used the language of Romans 14:12 that every individual (unusquisque) should give an account to God for their own actions. But the metaphor oh hierarchical answerability to God did become more prevalent in the Carolingian world, and at least for rulers and householders, often in an absolute sense, focused on results rather than intentions. We obviously don’t have the counterfactual of whether there would have been fewer Carolingian attempts at reform if Alcuin and/or Charlemagne hadn’t conceptualised rendering account in this specific way. But I think we should at least acknowledge that this kind of language encouraged a new view of what success in Christianization looked like that didn’t necessarily regard previous church practice as inviolable.  

Moral instruction for bad men

Note: I am currently translating Jonas of Orléans’ lay mirror “De institutione laicali” for publication by Manchester University Press. This is the first of several posts inspired by the text.

The four Carolingian lay mirrors have both a general audience and a specific one: one particular man to whom they are addressed. This created a problem for Jonas. How do you write a guide for religious/moral living for a bad man? Matfrid, count of Orléans, to whom De institutione laicali (DIL) is addressed, was probably the second-most dubious magnate at the court of the emperor Louis the Pious. (We’ll get to the most dubious in a minute).

Cologne, Dombibl. Lat. 184, 1v: the start of De institutione laicali with Matfrid’s name erased.
(Image from https://digital.dombibliothek-koeln.de/hs/content/zoom/290608)

The other mirror writers probably didn’t have this problem. Judging by Paulinus’ planctus (poem of lament) over the death of Eric, duke of Friuli, for whom he’d written the Liber exhortationis, Eric was a model Christian warrior. We don’t know enough about Wido, count of the Breton march, for whom Alcuin wrote De virtutibus et vitiis to be sure about his moral status, but he was at least not notorious.

Dhuoda’s son William, for whom she wrote her Liber manualis is a trickier moral proposition. William was only sixteen, so hadn’t had too far to go astray, but his father, Dhuoda’s husband was Bernard of Septimania, almost certainly the most morally dubious magnate at Carolingian courts. Bernard was a schemer, a traitor and possibly committed adultery with Louis the Pious’ wife the empress Judith. It’s no wonder Dhuoda thought William needed extra moral instruction. Since William himself was killed fighting to avenge his father’s execution by Charles the Bald for treason, it’s not clear that Dhuoda’s earnest maternal advice had any effect on her son, but at least she had some hopes of leading him onto better things.

Which brings us to Matfrid, about whose salvation Jonas was probably far less optimistic. Matfrid was one of the most powerful men at Louis the Pious’ court from 815 onwards. (On his career, the best starting point is Philippe Depreux, “Le comte Matfrid d’Orléans (av. 815-836)”, Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes (152) 1994, 331-374, available at https://www.persee.fr/doc/bec_0373-6237_1994_num_152_2_450735). Although Matfrid didn’t hold any official position at court, he played a role as an intercessor/intermediary in the granting of a number of royal charters. He was also probably responsible for getting Jonas’ predecessor as bishop of Orléans, the great scholar Theodulf, disgraced in 818. Matfrid took control of one of the local monasteries at Meung after Theodulf’s fall, and several other monasteries in the region had new abbots then, although there’s no mention of Matfrid’s direct control of them.

Matfrid also had a reputation for corruption: Agobard wrote a letter to him, possibly in late 827, in which he reported the “rumour” that Matfrid was protecting wrongdoers from Louis’ justice, with the implicit claim that Matfrid was taking bribes. (Translation of the letter at https://sourcebooks.web.fordham.edu/source/agobard2.asp). Matfrid was disgraced in February 828, after military failure on the Spanish border in 827. The person who benefited most from his fall was Bernard of Septimania, who became the closest advisor of Louis the Pious, and whose relative Odo became count of Orléans in Matfrid’s place. This has raised suspicions that Bernard stitched up Matfrid and Hugo of Tours, who suffered the same fate as him: see Roger Collins, “Pippin I and the kingdom of Aquitaine” in Charlemagne’s heir: new perspectives on the reign of Louis the Pious (814-840), edited by Peter Godman and Roger Collins, Oxford, 1990, pp. 363-389. There’s no specific evidence of bad blood between Matfrid and Bernard before 828, but given there were obviously factions at Louis’ court earlier on (as seen in Wala’s exile and return in 822), it’s likely there was jockeying for position at least.

Matfrid’s record after his dismissal is even worse. Depreux comments (p. 364): “Matfrid definitely succumbed to perpetual rebellion.” (“Matfrid a décidément versé dans la revolte perpétuelle”). He was involved in rebellions by Louis’ sons in 830, 832 and 833, before dying in exile in Italy with Lothar I in 836.The Annales Bertiniani 832 talks of Matfrid’s “treacherous plots and schemes” even after Louis had spared his life in 831.

Why did such a man ask Jonas for a guide to how to live a good life as a layman? Here’s how Jonas starts DIL:

I recently received a letter from Your Zealousness, in which you forcefully reminded little me that I should write to you as quickly and briefly as possible, how you and others who are tied up by bond to a wife ought to lead a life pleasing to God

(Tuae nuper strenuitatis litteras suscepi, quibus  meam extremitatem commonefecisti, ut tibi citissime et quam breuissime scriberemus qualiter te ceterosque qui uxorio uinculo ligantur, uitam Deo placitam ducere oporteret).

There’s no sign in Agobard’s letter to Matfrid that Matfrid had previously asked for his advice, which suggests that these references to a request are not just a topos, though Jonas’s Preface does then go immediately into the topos of “Oh, I’m not up to this task, but I’ll do it anyhow, from love of you.” So why did Matfrid ask for this text from Jonas? My immediate answer would be that Christian piety was fashionable at Louis the Pious’ court and that therefore Matfrid wanted a quick and simple way to show how pious he was. In this case, he got more than he bargained for. I don’t know how long it took Jonas to write DIL (it would depend to what extent he already had quotations piled up), but it’s by far the longest of the mirrors. The Sources chrétiennes edition I’m using has around 350 pages of Latin. And Jonas doesn’t just cover married life, but a lot of other topics as well.

DIL is, like almost all Carolingian treatises, not very well organised, but it still seems to me quite focused. It has a specific type of man in its sights: a powerful and rich man who thinks that he’s entitled to do anything he likes. Jonas in DIL is there to tell him that the laws of God apply to him too, that he needs to live a better life, and that he also needs to confess, do penance and carry out good works in order to attain salvation.

So how does Jonas write about this kind of man without making it seem like he’s attacking Matfrid? (This would be an extremely bad idea, given what happened to Theodulf). Irene van Renswoude, who discusses Agobard’s letter in her book The Rhetoric of Free Speech in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages has an interesting comment on Agobard’s technique (p. 220):

He pictures an ideal portrait of Matfrid as the kind of man who would never do such a thing [take bribes to protect the corrupt], thus persuading the count to conform to the ideal image of him that he, the author of the letter, has created. ‘O most outstanding of men’, Agobard writes to Matfrid, just after he has informed him of what people are supposedly saying behind his back [that he’s a wall protecting bad men from the emperor] , ‘strive instead to be a wall for the increase of happiness, a wall which defeats the harmful and protects the innocent’. Agobard puts pressure on Matfrid to use his familiarity with the emperor to do good, and never use this privileged position for his personal advantage, without stating directly that he thinks this is exactly what Matfrid has been doing.

Jonas is more subtle than Agobard. Both Paulinus and Dhuoda address their addressee directly throughout their mirrors. Alcuin does so in some passages, which may reflect the influence of sermons. Jonas does this relatively rarely. Although De institutione laicali isn’t the original title (the work doesn’t have one), Jonas in the Preface does indicate that the work is intended for the “lay institution”, making it a kind of equivalent to the Institutio canonicorum Aquisgranensis produced at the Council of Aachen 816, laying down a rule for canons, or the Benedictine Rule for monks.

Structuring his text as a rule means that Jonas naturally put his instructions into the third person, so there’s immediately more of a distancing effect than giving guidance to a second-person addressee. But Jonas also wants to warn against faults, without implying that Matfrid is committing them. So he frequently uses the trope of “some people abide by this rule, but there are also some who do not”. See e.g.

For there are certain nobles, which is laudable, who hasten ardently that they and theirs be signed with a gift of this kind [confirmation]; also there are certain others, which is worthy of emendation, who delay to do it for a long time. (DIL 1-7)

There are very many leading a married life, who take care to distinguish very modestly between the times of having intercourse or not with their wives; also there are those who not only reject having this form of discrimination, but rather they are accustomed shamelessly to oppose those censuring and contradicting them (DIL 2-3)

Jonas isn’t criticizing Matfrid, you see, but those bad people over there… If Matfrid choose to recognize himself in this mirror and acknowledge his failings, that’s fine, but Jonas isn’t doing any specific finger-pointing at him.

But I think there’s also a third tactic that Jonas uses, when even this abstracting away blame isn’t possible. At time, I think, he simply holds his tongue. It’s always difficult to know why an author hasn’t written about something, but with DIL we do have the advantage of having several two later texts that reuse some of his material and that were probably edited by him: the Council of Paris 829 and De institutione regiaI (DIR), sent to Pippin of Aquitaine probably in late 831. DIL itself was originally written at some time between 818 and 828 and then revised in 828-829, after Matfrid’s fall.

What all that means is that if there are topics in DIR and/or Paris 829 that relate to lay noblemen and aren’t in DIL, then they’re probably things that Jonas didn’t dare say to Matfrid. (The alternatives are either that they are new problems or ones that Jonas hadn’t previously thought about. As we’ll see, that’s unlikely).

There are two important themes that I’ve spotted so far in the post-Matfrid Paris 829/DIR that aren’t in the Matfrid-era DIL. One is about the need for rulers to appoint just judges (Paris 829, II, 3 and DIR 5). The other is Paris 829 II, 6 and DIR 9, where a chapter on caritas has a special reference to it being needed between those at court, who shouldn’t be plotting against one another. The fact that DIL doesn’t say anything about the need to be a just judge (whereas that is discussed in Alcuin’s mirror and Dhuoda’s), suggests to me that Jonas can’t think of a way of talking about this that won’t look like an attack on Matfrid. The suggestion that he hadn’t thought it about at that point, given how many biblical quotes he produces against such behaviour, is implausible.

The problem of hatred at court is less certain. It’s possible that Jonas only realised how big a problem it could be after Matfrid’s fall, but I suspect he again thought it was something that couldn’t be said when Matfrid was powerful at court.

There’s also the question of why Jonas didn’t include these in the b-version of DIL, which he probably wrote after Matfrid’s fall. But Odile Dubreucq’s edition of DIL, which I’m using, shows that the changes between the two versions are largely just quotations added (and sometime removed) from the text, plus some rearrangement of chapters. There aren’t any new chapters added; this wasn’t a radical makeover of the text.

If I’m right, and I’m open to counterarguments in the comments, despite Jonas’ serious attempts to get powerful laymen to live more godly lives, even he felt some limits on his parrhesia (frank speech) when it came to Matfrid specifically.

Born to do that

It’s been a tough eighteen months for me: needing two retinal tears in my eye mended and with persistent and so far unrelieved severe pain in my knee and feet. I’m just about to retire from my library job in the spring, age sixty, partly because I don’t feel I have the fitness or enthusiasm to take on extra responsibilities after our Library Development team was disbanded and half of its members made redundant. And there have been times with my health problems when I’ve wondered whether I’ll be able to keep going with my medieval research.

This post is to remind myself that whatever happens I have been lucky in my life in some respects. In particular, three times in my life I have come across something that I felt I was born to do. In a world where so many people feel directionless, that has helped me keep going at times, given me an image of the good life/full life that Charles Taylor talks about in Sources of the Self:  “what kind of life would fulfil the promise implicit in my particular talents”? I wanted to write about those feelings partly to help people recognize them for themselves, but also to show how you can gain from such activities even if you don’t end up making a career from them.

The first thing I felt I was born to do was mathematics, and I experienced that almost literally. Lurking in my files is an exercise book from when I was at nursery (so aged three or four). I started off with the basic 2+2 = 4, 3+3 = 6, and then I just kept going and going and going for pages. At one point I went wrong, but my fascination with numbers was already evident. I’m told I once tried to add up the numbers in the phone directory (we had to make our own amusements when I was young), and I certainly factorized hymn numbers during my father’s sermons as a child/teenager.

I wasn’t a maths prodigy in any real sense, but I was the best mathematician in my year at school and I rarely struggled with any problems. That changed, of course, when I went to Oxford University to study maths. Ruth Lawrence, who went to Oxford at 12, matriculated in the same year as me, but there were also friends of mine in the same college who were already mathematicians at a level that I could never attain. A friend of mine doing a history degree summed up that same feeling talking about one of her own cohort: “we’re studying history, she’s a historian”.

I had to learn to live with others’ intellectual superiority in a more immediate way than before. But I also came to understand that their success wasn’t purely a matter of ability. I think I was right not to try and do a PhD after my first degree, but I would have been good enough to do a masters and go onto some kind of mathematically-heavy career. But at Oxford I realised that I didn’t truly love mathematics; it was other things that thrilled me. At college I ploughed through a foreign language book for the first time outside school, on the Tristan legend. The Middle Ages kept on creeping in…

Perhaps precisely because I had felt born to do maths, the fact that I did not deep down  love it had not initially mattered. Does a fish need to love water? But now I could see alternatives. I was also becoming slightly disillusioned with maths, as I came to realise that the absolutely precise and beautiful solutions we encountered in lectures and problem sheets did not reflect the reality even of most pure maths problems. The purity and certainty I had sought in mathematics was not always there: most problems had no solutions, just like in real life.

I gave up maths at age twenty and I’ve seldom looked back. I became a librarian and I’ve worked for most of my career as one, but I can’t say I’ve ever felt born to do it. It’s been a job, at times appealing, at times frustrating. I knew that I wanted something more from my life, but I didn’t know what.

My second encounter with the feeling that I was born to do something was when I became a medieval historian. This was a different experience: a long-term fascination with the Middle Ages that gradually came to focus onto the Carolingians. Then I was lucky enough to get the chance to do a masters at Cambridge.

It was a steep learning curve. My supervisor pointed out after seeing a draft of my first essay that I didn’t have an argument, which is the kind of basic mistake you’d normally make as a first-year undergraduate. I went away and cried and then managed to work out how to fix the essay. I had a determination that year that could move mountains, or at least take me through long articles in academic German. I went to every vaguely relevant seminar and lecture I could. I’d race from an archaeology lecture in Downing Street to the Sidgwick site to arrive slightly late, and often panting, at Peter Dronke’s lectures on medieval Latin poetry. I didn’t understand half his quotations, but I knew I wanted to seize a chance that might never reoccur.

I discovered during that year that I was good enough to carry on a historian. Some of my friends were better at languages or palaeography or knew more of the historiography. But I was just good enough that my determination could find a way to get me through and keep studying and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since.

I’ve never had a sustained career as a historian, but nevertheless the feeling that I was born to study the Middle Ages has never left me, or at least not for long. There are lots of other things I could be doing with my free time rather than translating Latin or foot-noting articles, but I’ve made my choices. When I have stepped away from doing research for a while, I’ve always found myself coming back to it after a break. I don’t know for how long I’ll continue researching in my retirement, since that will depend crucially on my health, but I can’t, at the moment, imagine voluntarily giving up.

On the other hand, I have, for the moment, given up the third thing I felt I was born to do, and I’m not sure whether I will return to it. This was writing fanfic, which I was seriously committed to for a few intense years, starting in a period in 2010 when I’d submitted my book-of-the-thesis manuscript. I saw a TV series I really enjoyed, stumbled onto an internet thread that included prompts for fanfic, and suddenly saw a way to use the creative writing skills I’d been developing on and off since a teenager. I’m not sure exactly how many words of fanfic I produced in the next four years or so, but it was hundreds of thousands, and my longest fic is over 30,000 words (the equivalent of three full journal articles; in terms of quality control, it was also betaed before appearing publicly).

I learned a lot from writing fanfic: at a technical level it not only freed up my writing style, but sharpened my historical sense of how you could create very different narratives from the same basic evidence. And I also learnt a lot about sexuality from reading and talking to others writing in the same fandom, and enjoyed being part of a new community, which even at times moved from online to real life. An attraction to this kind of hobby might seem very different from feeling “born” to something like mathematics or medieval history that could potentially allow me to make a living, but the vocational difference, in the sense of a calling, isn’t as great as you might imagine. One of the fandom friends I made was an academic (considerably more successful than me). She wrote a very good fanfic about child abuse – you can write all sorts of genres and themes within many fandoms. Someone who’d suffered such abuse commented on how much she’d appreciated the story. My friend was left feeling that she’d possibly benefited people more with that story than all her fairly specialised academic writing.

I’ve almost completely given up writing fanfic now; I still have the urge to do it, but it’s hard to find the time to do so, when I’ve got other things to write, including this blog. Even if I do return to it, now I have more free time, it probably wouldn’t have the same thrill. The people in the fandom community I was part of gradually went separate ways, partly due to platform issues (the decline of LiveJournal, the rise of Tumblr) and partly because later series of the show were less good and more divisive among the fanbase, leading to people moving to fandoms I was less interested in, or didn’t have time to get up to speed with. Some parts of the fandom, especially on Tumblr, were also starting to show the kind of social justice warrior streak that obsessively criticised others for their reading or writing tastes, rather than the fanfic they should be enjoying. But I can’t regret being part of that surge of creativity, even if it wasn’t long term.

Are there more general patterns within those three experiences? What made me feel that I was born to do something each time was the combination of aptitude for an activity and fascination with it. That got me into a virtuous circle: my fascination made me willing to put in the hours of practice that increased my skill, but the satisfaction from doing something well also increased my fascination, as I saw how I could go even further. What’s striking, however, is that the starting point wasn’t the same. The aptitude came first for fanfic and probably for mathematics. For medieval history, however, the fascination came early, but I only developed the skills to study it academically over many years. Some of these skills were consciously developed, like learning Latin, some more by chance. I only studied German to A level, which has been vital for being able to tackle Carolingian secondary literature, because I’d mucked up my English O level and the French A level timetable didn’t work out.

This combination of aptitude and fascination hasn’t been common in my life. There are some things I’ve become reasonably good at through a lot of practice, without much innate ability (such as origami and cooking). There are things I’ve been good at without overwhelming enjoyment (library IT skills and basic language learning). And there are a number of activities I’d have liked to do where I just didn’t have enough initial talent to persuade me to persevere in improving my ability (art and singing).

As my career as a librarian shows, you don’t need this feeling to do something to make a living from it. I don’t know how often other people feel they have been to born to do some activity, but I think it is worth recognizing if you do and following up on that feeling, even if you can’t find employment in it. It won’t necessarily make you happy all the time: I’ve often struggled with the difficulty of understanding a proof or writing a piece. And I’ve also had to learn to deal with my envy of those most talented or more successful in my chosen field. But it is still worth trying to find those activities that fit with your soul in that way, because they can give your life a meaning that will help sustain you through difficult circumstances, like the ones I’m going through at the moment.

Are we sugarcoating medieval misogyny? 2: the rubber cage of medieval patriarchy

Image of cage with rubber bars generated by ChatGPT

I will explain the peculiar metaphor of my title later on, but this post is a second reaction to a Substack post by the social scientist Alice Evans, who is researching the historical development of gender equality. (My first post, discussing the 2024-2025 British Library exhibition on medieval women, In Their Own Words, is here).

Alice Evans’ complaint is that historians of medieval women are “sugar-coating medieval misogyny”. In her post she implies that historians who work on medieval women are often simply “celebrating exceptional subversives” and enquires:

how could women exercise meaningful influence if subversives were systematically silenced, suppressed, and or even butchered?

I think she’s conflating three different concepts in “exceptional subversives” here:

The first is those who are subversive of the patriarchal system: women who want to destroy or replace existing social systems. Such women are important for Evans because she’s looking for the roots of systematic change, and she doesn’t find them in the Middle Ages.

I’d agree that it’s very rare to find such figures, but it’s equally rare in the medieval west for other subordinate groups, such as non-elite men, to be subversive of the social order. For example, peasant and artisanal revolts are not common, even though male peasants and artisans were better communally organised than women of any class. Most peasant ideals amount to reversal rather than destruction of the system: they want to be masters over their lords.

The second concept is the group of individual subversives: women who want to escape individually from existing patriarchal restrictions from women, without a wider concern to “smash the system”. A few women did get away with subverting the system, usually with the help of male relatives. I’ve written before about some Carolingian examples: princess Judith (who eloped with Baldwin of Flanders), Engeltrude/Ingiltrude (a married countess who ran off with her lover) and Ava who abandoned her husband (see ‘Bound from Either Side’: The Limits of Power in Carolingian Marriage Disputes, 840–870, 10.1111/j.1468-0424.2007.00492.x and https://magistraetmater.wordpress.com/2010/10/13/narrative-indeterminacy-or-history-as-rpf-prompt-9608378/. But I’d agree that such women were normally suppressed.

But there’s also a third category: women who are exceptions to the patriarchal norms, but whose exception is approved by the patriarchy itself. In Evans’ view, individual subversives are systematically suppressed, but how do we deal with a case like Joan of Arc? She was suppressed by the English patriarchal system, obviously, but she was not suppressed by the French one. Influential Frenchmen did not either tell her to go back to Domrémy or try her as a heretic. Unless you’re going to make the implausible claim that late medieval French and English patriarchal systems were fundamentally different, you have to accept that in this case one patriarchal system allowed a woman considerable authority.

That’s what I call the rubber cage of patriarchy, and I want to contrast it with an idea of patriarchy as an iron cage, enclosing women in a series of interlocking and immoveable restrictions. It’s similar to the metaphor of the birdcage in Marilyn Frye’s The Politics of Reality; there is not just one form of female oppression, but multiple, interacting ones. The patriarchal  iron cage is created on the basis of the fundamental tenet of patriarchy, the claim that women are physically, mentally and morally inferior to men. Therefore they must always be under male control and restriction.

We’re seeing the grotesquely full implementation of such iron cage patriarchy in Afghanistan. In this total patriarchal logic, women are needed only for sexual pleasure (although boys might be an alternative), reproduction and various menial household tasks (cooking, cleaning, textile production/care, care of small children).

By contrast, in medieval western Europe, though there is an overall ideological cage of patriarchy, there are also more exceptions. I’ve listed some of them, broken down by the analytical axes by which I’m trying to analyse patriarchy.

1) Economic:

Some women have property rights and can manage their own property

A few women are found working in almost all occupations

2) Education:

A few women have received an education which makes them respected by contemporary male scholars

3) Power:

Some women are in positions of secular authority (queens, countesses etc) and are able to issue commands to male subordinates

Most abbesses have male as well as female subordinates and also control substantial property

4) Sex and marriage:

Some women are able to choose whom to marry or choose not to marry

5) Ideology:

Some religious women have sufficient spiritual authority that their views are listened to by senior male clerics

Few women are restricted to their house and women do not normally have their bodies/faces completely covered in public.

6) Violence:

Some women are able legally to protect themselves or get redress for violence against them

A few women have male subordinates able to inflict violence on others

Are these just exceptional cases, at the very edge of medieval law and custom? No, these are systematic exceptions, in which a minority of women regularly have some kind of agency. For example, a recent conference paper by Emily Bolton,  a PhD student at the University of Southampton, looked at Hampshire manorial records for the thirteenth and fourteenth century and found 10-20% of peasant tenants (i.e. heads of households) on most manors were women. That’s not parity, but it doesn’t make female tenants exceptional either.   

That’s why I use my peculiar metaphor for medieval patriarchy: women were caged by restrictions, but the cage bars weren’t iron, but thick rubber. They could be regularly bent from the outside to allow some women out, or women in some sphere of action out. But then the bars spring back to where they were, and the general restrictions continue, even as such exceptions were repeatedly made.

So, for example, a law of Afonso V of Portugal (1438-1477) in the Ordenações Afonsinas stated that husbands could not alienate real property without their wife’s consent, and that contrary to previous law, wives no longer needed a King’s charter to bring suit in court:

save in the case where such wife be found so lacking in judgment that she would proceed without just cause, or be incapable of conducting the same suit so as to bring it to proper conclusion  

 (Translation from conference paper by Vicente Martins, https://imc-leeds.confex.com/imc/2025/meetingapp.cgi/Session/7512)

Women here have some rights, but only if they’re the correct sort of woman and have the ability and/or support to enforce them.  

Why was there this pattern of combined restrictions and exceptions? I think it’s because there are regular moments of interest convergence between individual medieval women and powerful men/groups of men within societies.  I’ve discussed before how male relatives might want to protect “their” women’s rights or allow them more economic freedom. You can see, for example, a repeated tension between the alternatives of widows or male relatives as guardians of/regents for underage children after their father has died. Widows might be seen as incompetent and vulnerable; but there was also an awareness that they might be more likely to act in their children’s interests than “wicked uncles” eager to gain power and wealth for themselves. In societies where women remained connected to both their natal family and their marital family, they might have useful roles as peacemakers between them.

Similar convergence of interest meant that  women perceived as holy, from Genevieve to Joan of Arc, might find male supporters who could gain prestige and spiritual guidance from association with them. Women were more able to take up skilled work in cities/trades where male capitalists were seeking to undermine guild restrictions (for the simple economic reason that female workers could often be paid less). Christine de Pisan may have been exceptional as a professional female writer, but she could be a professional precisely because she wrote works that appealed to both male and female patrons.

A recent paper by Ian Forrest gave a particularly interesting example, discussing how the late medieval French church both created and limited what he described as women’s participation in “civic society”. Every parish was supposed to have a church-authorized midwife (authorized  to ensure that she was competent to perform emergency baptisms). Visitation records show a repeated expectation that the women of a parish (or representatives from among them) would gather publicly and elect such midwives. The late medieval Catholic church, which as Forrest’s recent book Gender and Authority in the Late Medieval Church: A New History analyses, strictly excluded women from most official roles, here not only created a new all-female one, but allowed a number of women limited access to civic society in choosing her.

This was a limited civic space for local women, which involved them accepting the wider space of the church’s male authority. It was also a limited space because it could be, and eventually was, closed down by the changing views of religious men. The rubber cage didn’t simply disappear, even when some women had squeezed through the bars.

Nevertheless, the “rubberiness” of this patriarchal cage did give women some room to manoeuvre; or at least some women, some of the time. My imprecision is necessary: we simply don’t have the sources in most cases to calculate even approximate frequencies of female involvement in specific activities or taking specific opportunities. (Even for queens, among the best documented medieval women, I’m not sure you could easily quantify how many were politically active). But there is enough evidence to show that despite the patriarchal cage, women in the medieval West regularly had agency, some power and some freedom from arbitrary domination. An exhibition that chooses to highlight that isn’t necessarily sugar-coating medieval misogyny.

The unmemorable queen

There’s been much recent scholarly interest in queenship, and this inevitably leads to the recurring historical question: what changed in medieval queenship and when? To answer this. it’s often useful to compare queens and their agency in different periods, but I’m increasingly wondering how easy it is to do this. In particular, there is the problem, especially in the earlier Middle Ages, of the unmemorable queen.

In a sense, this is slightly misleading: the queens I’m thinking of weren’t necessarily personally undistinguished. But if you look at any systematic discussion of medieval queens, you’ll notice something important: there are almost always some either not mentioned or dealt with very cursorily. Take Kathleen Nolan (ed.), Capetian Women (Palgrave Macmillan, 2004). There were 13 kings in the Capetian dynasty, some of whom notoriously had more than one wife: there are 12 main chapters in the book and several of them cover the same queen. Some of our Capetian women are missing.

Similarly, if you look at the contents of Amalie Fössel (ed.), Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters (Friedrich Pustet, 2011), there are some omissions. Only one of Frederick II’s three wives (Constance of Aragon) is there and there’s no Eupraxia of Kiev. More surprisingly, there’s also no chapter on Barbara of Cilli, though I presume that was just a problem with getting authors for the collection, rather than a lack of sources, given there’s now an entire book on her by Daniela Dvořáková.

If you look at the early Middle Ages, there are frequent discussions of how prominent and powerful Merovingian queens were. What is actually meant, however, is a small subset of royal women. Ian Wood’s prosopography of the Merovingians (at the end of The Merovingian Kingdoms 450-751) has 56 women out of the 124 names. Out of these, 38 were the partners of Merovingian kings. Wood deliberately uses the term “partner” so he doesn’t have to try and distinguish between wives, concubines and other forms of relationships, which is very difficult for the period.

Of these 38, I’d say that perhaps 6 are known to have been politically significant:

  • St Clothilde (partner of Clovis I)
  • St Radegund (partner of Clothar I)
  • Brunhild (partner of Sigibert I)
  • Fredegund (partner of Chilperic I)
  • Nantechild (partner of Dagobert I)
  • Balthild (partner of Clovis II)

You could possibly argue for the significance of one or two more, but that still leaves the majority of these women as relatively unremarkable, despite their high social status.

This isn’t just a problem with sixth and seventh century sources: how many Carolingian queens are there about whom we know enough to write a journal article (let alone a book) focused just on them? This is my rough tally (with a selective bibliography at the end), of those who were probably wives rather than mistresses of Carolingian rulers between 750-900:

1) Bertrada (Pippin III): yes, by Jinty Nelson

2) Himiltrude (Charlemagne): arguable. The articles I’m aware of concentrate mostly on the question of Pippin the Hunchback’s legitimacy

3) Desiderius’s daughter (Charlemagne): article on all his daughters by Jinty Nelson

4) Hildegard (Charlemagne): yes, by Klaus Schreiner

5) Fastrada (Charlemagne): Multiple (Coupland, Innes, Nelson, Schmieder, Staab)

6) Liutgard (Charlemagne): not that I know of

7) Ermengard (Louis the Pious): not that I know of

8) Judith (Louis the Pious): multiple, including a thesis by Elizabeth Ward

9) Irmingard (Lothar I): not that I know of

10) Emma (Louis the German): yes, by Eric Goldberg

11) Ermentrude (Charles the Bald): several, including by Bernwieser, Hyam and Mistry

12) Richildis (Charles the Bald): yes, by Hyam

13) Angilberga (Louis II): multiple, including a book by Erminio Morenghi

14) Theutberga and Waldrada (Lothar II): multiple on the divorce, very little otherwise

15) Liutgard (Louis the Younger): some mention in article by Ute Schwab

16) Richardis (Charles the Fat): one very old article by Barth

17 and 18) Ansgard and Adelaide (Louis the Stammerer): article by Carlrichard Brühl on the circumstances of the second marriage

19) Irmingard (Boso of Provence): yes, by Carlrichard Brühl

20) Uota/Oda (Arnulf): yes, by Timothy Reuter

In contrast, complete books or theses have been written about almost all the kings in this list (I’m not sure about Louis the Younger or Boso of Provence). Kings, even unmemorable ones, simply have a substantially higher public profile, in terms of sources and public actions, than their wives do.

In more subjective terms, only some of these Carolingian queens were substantial political players: Bertrada, Fastrada, Judith and Angilberga are the obvious ones, with Ermentrude and Theutberga (after her repudiation) also having a significant public profile. Some of the other women on this list may have had substantial influence behind the scenes: Irmingard of Provence was alleged to have provoked Boso to usurp the throne, and Waldrada’s influence on Lothar II arguably led to the end of Lotharingia. But it does remind us that when we’re talking about the power and influence of queens, we in fact mean a subset of queens. It’s not a small enough subset to turn powerful queens back into “exceptional” women, but it does suggest that marriage to a king wasn’t in itself enough to give a woman political importance: she also needed both skill and luck. Pure biological chance could make a man such as Charles the Fat emperor of a whole realm; influential queenship was a more contingent phenomenon and we need to remember that.

Bibliography

Barth, Médard. 1949. “Die heilige Richardis und ihr Kult.” In Festschrift zur Neunhundertjahrfeier der Weihe der Stiftskirche von Andlau und der Heiligsprechung von St. Richardis durch Papst Leo IX : 1049-1949, 11-100. Selestat: Alsatia.

Bernwieser, Johannes. 2013. “‘Ad deprecationem karissimae et amantissimae conjugis nostre Yrmintrudis’. Zur Herrschaftspraxis und zum sozialen Netzwerk der Königin Ermentrud (+ 869).” In Matronage: Handlungsstrategien und soziale Netzwerke antiker Herrscherfrauen: Beiträge eines Kolloquiums an der Universität Osnabrück vom 22. bis 24. März 2012, edited by Christiane Kunst and Anja Schulz, 145-156. Rahden: VML Verlag Marie Leidorf.

Brühl, Carlrichard. 1964. “Hinkmariana II: Hinkmar im Widerstreit von kanonischem Recht und Politik in Ehefragen.” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 20: 55-77.

—. 1988. “Karolingische Miszellen. I: Die Vorgänge in Westfranken beim Thronwechsel des Jahres 877. II: Eine angebliche Urkunde der Königin Irmingard von der Provence für den Venetianer Dominicus Carimannus aus dem Jahre 909 und die Frühgeschichte von Teutonicus-Deutscher. III: Ein westfränkisches Reichsteilungsprojekt aus dem Jahre 953.” Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 44: 355-389.

Coupland, Simon. 2023. “A coin of Queen Fastrada and Charlemagne.” Early Medieval Europe 31: 585-597.

Goldberg, Eric J. 2006. “Regina nitens sanctissima Hemma: Queen Emma (827-876), Bishop Witgar of Augsburg, and the Witgar-belt.” In Representations of power in medieval Germany 800-1500, edited by Björn Weiler and Simon MacLean, In International Medieval Research, 16, 57-95. Turnhout: Brepols.

Hyam, Jane. 1981. “Ermentrude and Richildis.” In Charles the Bald: court and kingdom, edited by Margaret T. Gibson, Janet L. Nelson and David Ganz, In BAR International Series, 101, 153-168. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports.

Innes, Matthew. 2018. “Queenship in dispute: Fastrada, history and law.” In Writing the early medieval West: studies in honour of Rosamond McKitterick, edited by Elina Screen and Charles West, 230-247. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Mistry, Zubin. 2019. “Ermentrude’s consecration (866): queen-making rites and biblical templates for Carolingian fertility.” Early Medieval Europe 27: 567-588.

Morenghi, Erminio. 2022. L’imperatrice Angilberga, una donna di potere dell’Alto Medioevo tra ragion di Stato e spiritualità benedettina. [Pieve San Giacomo]: Apostrofo.

Nelson, Janet L. 1997. “The siting of the Council at Frankfort: some reflections on family and politics.” In Das Frankfurter Konzil von 794: Kristallisationspunkt karolingischer Kultur: Akten zweier Symposien (vom 23. bis 27. Februar und vom 13. bis 15. Oktober 1994) anlässlich der 1200-Jahrfeier der Stadt Frankfurt am Main, edited by Rainer Berndt, 149-165. Mainz: Gesellschaft für Mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte.

—. 1998. “Making a difference in eighth-century politics: the daughters of Desiderius.” In After Rome’s fall: narrators and sources of early medieval history. Essays presented to Walter Goffart, edited by Alexander Callander Murray, 171-190. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

—. 2004. “Bertrada.” In Der Dynastiewechsel von 751: Vorgeschichte, Legitimationsstrategien und Erinnerung, edited by Matthias Becher and Jörg Jarnut, 93-108. Münster: Scriptorium.

Reuter, Timothy. 2006. “Sex, lies and oath-helpers: the trial of Queen Uota.” In Medieval polities and modern mentalities, 217-230. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Schmieder, Felicitas. 2005. “Fastrada — Karl der Grosse, die Bayern und Frankfurt am Main.” Millennium (2): 329-335.

Schreiner, Klaus. 1975. “”Hildegardis regina”. Wirklichkeit und Legende einer karolingischen Herrscherin.” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 57: 1-70.

Schwab, Ute. 1990. “Agius von Corvey. Ein Fragment seines Compotus und die Überlieferung der altsächsischen Bibelepik.” In Architectura poetica: Festschrift für Johannes Rathofer zum 65. Geburtstag, edited by Ulrich Ernst and Bernhard Sowinski, 29-43. Cologne: Böhlau.

Staab, Franz. 1997. “Die Königen Fastrada.” In Das Frankfurter Konzil von 794: Kristallisationspunkt karolingischer Kultur: Akten zweier Symposien (vom 23. bis 27. Februar und vom 13. bis 15. Oktober 1994) anlässlich der 1200-Jahrfeier der Stadt Frankfurt am Main, edited by Rainer Berndt, 183-217. Mainz: Gesellschaft für Mittelrheinische Kirchengeschichte.

Ward, Elizabeth. 2002. “The career of the empress Judith 819-843.” PhD, King’s College London.

IMC 2025: Carolingian moral authority and notorious sinners

Generic picture of speaker at IMC

I had to cancel going to the International Medieval Congress 2025 in person at the last minute because of health problems, but I did at least get to attend virtually, gave a paper on Carolingian sadness and heard a lot of interesting papers from others, with more to come on catch-up. I’m probably not going to attempt a full blog of all the papers I heard, but some have inspired me to think in new directions. One of those was by Max Diesenberger on “Synods as Opportunity and Problem for Late Carolingian Rule”, in a session (1503) on the Problems of Empire in the Carolingian Age, organized by Jenny Davis.

Max’s paper was about one of the most obscure late Carolingian rulers (more obscure even than Arnulf): Arnulf’s son Louis the Child, who ruled East Francia in 899-911, although given he was only six when Arnulf died in 899, Louis himself didn’t do much ruling.

Max was interested in how a failure to hold assemblies and synods after 906 hampered efforts to fight the raiding Hungarians. (He had a book out in 2023 on the Carolingian response to the Hungarians more generally, Politik der Bedrohung: Die Ungarn und die Desintegration des Frankenreichs um 900). Because of this lack of meetings there was no longer a shared discourse developed at assemblies and this increased a lack of unity among the magnates and meant feuds couldn’t be settled.

Even before 906 assemblies had been restricted in who could attend, but Max attributed the end of all assemblies to the events in 906. Adalbert of Babenburg, who was prominent in the feud between his family and the Conradines. Adalbert was judged and executed at as assembly in 906, after he’d agreed to attend on a safe-conduct  given by one of the king’s main advisers, Archbishop Hatto of Mainz, who was later given some of Adalbert’s confiscated property. Max also wondered if it was this event that made Regino finish his chronicle with 906 and the execution (Regino doesn’t mention the safe-conduct), rather than take it in 907-908.

In the discussion afterwards, Max mentioned Chris Wickham talking about how Charlemagne built a moral empire, but although everything was still being copied in the year 900, the empire and its rulers no longer had moral authority. Max added that by that point there was a mental frame of lack of trust which made collaboration in fighting the Hungarians very difficult.

I’ve been interested in moral authority within the Carolingian world for 25 years now, ever since I started my PhD. But Max’s paper suddenly connected up with something written in the 820s by Jonas of Orléans in his lay mirror De institutione laicali, which I’m currently translating for publication.  

In Book 1, chapter 10 on how priests should decide on forms of penance, Jonas complains about the abandonment of supposedly earlier forms of public penance, involving ashes, hairshirts and separation from the rest of the congregation. Instead, Jonas says:

But indeed if any Christian of our times should today admit either homicide or some other crime (homicidium aut aliud aliquod crimen), since he is not punished with penance of this kind, therefore tomorrow he does not fear to join irreverently the meeting of the faithful.  And therefore he is clearly proved to scandalize (scandalizare) the Church, whom he ought to have satisfied by doing penance.  For people are accustomed to say among themselves either publicly or silently towards these kind: “O murderer! O shameful one! Yesterday you admitted that and that, and today you insert yourself impudently in our association, with your hands stained with the blood of your neighbour; and what is greater impudence, you do not hesitate to share with us in the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ!” What I say here I have found by experience more than I would have wished (Quod dico plus usus quam uoto expertus sum).

Jonas’ concern about “scandalizing” the church is typical of attitudes in the reign of Louis the Pious, as Mayke de Jong has shown in The Penitential State. But it’s the last phrase here, about Jonas having experienced this issue, that I want to focus on here. It may be pure rhetoric, but it might possibly refer to a real situation, and if so, it implies one where Jonas did not have the authority to exclude a notorious sinner from the congregation. That may just mean that he’d seen this problem in another diocese. But there are two obvious notorious sinners whom Jonas might have thought too powerful for him to exclude from church services, despite their offences (note that although he refers to homicide, Jonas doesn’t limit the scandalous crimes just to that).

Those sinners are Matfrid of Orléans, the powerful local count to whom Jonas addressed his mirror, and Louis the Pious himself. Matfrid’s career is discussed by Philippe Depreux, Le comte Matfrid d’Orléans (av. 815-836)  (https://doi.org/10.3406/bec.1994.450735). One of the things I’m trying to work out at the moment is the extent to which De institutione laicali is obliquely critiquing/correcting Matfrid, with a certain plausible deniability in vague references to “many people” who commit certain sins, etc. If Jonas was commenting on Matfrid’s behaviour, he was probably wise to be careful: it’s likely that Matfrid had been responsible for the deposition in 818 of Jonas’ predecessor as bishop of Orléans, the famous scholar Theodulf (see Depreux pp. 347-351).

But there’s also another intriguing possibility: that Jonas had been uncomfortable about Louis the Pious’ blinding of his nephew Bernard of Italy in April 818 and Bernard’s subsequent death. Only a few months later, at the end of July 818, Louis visited Orléans, en route to a campaign in Brittany (see DD LdF 142-143, http://www.mgh.de/dmgh/resolving/MGH_DD_LdF_1_S._358). Ermoldus Nigellus describes both Matfrid and Jonas welcoming Louis (in Book 3 of his poem In honorem Hludovici), and there would presumably have been services attended by Louis. Louis himself did voluntary penance for Bernard’s death and other decisions made by him in 818 at the assembly of Attigny in 822; had Jonas already sensed something awkward within congregations in July 818?

Whether or not we can connect Jonas’ statements to specific incidents and sinners, his comments about scandal suggest a wider problem. In times of trouble within the kingdom, Carolingian rulers used assemblies and councils for acts of penance. These were often collective acknowledgements of guilt that had resulted in God’s loss of favour. Sometimes, however an individual’s wrong-doing was highlighted: this was normally  someone coerced into being a scapegoat, such as Tassilo or Ebbo of Rheims, but could occasionally be voluntary, as with Louis in 822. In fact, Louis at Attigny combined individual penance by himself with collective acknowledgment of their own sins by the assembled churchmen and magnates.

But this suggests one problem with acts of collective atonement: they were only effective if everybody present was, roughly speaking, equally guilty. In the presence within the community of an unacknowledged but notorious sinner, why should magnates and churchmen claim and believe that God was punishing the regnum for their sins rather than specifically his or hers? Louis’ combination of individual and collective penance provided a possible way forward, but the bringing up of Bernard’s death again as an accusation against Louis in 833 discouraged future rulers from ever admitting to any specific sin: see my article: “Spin and Silence: Royal Penance and Carolingian Propaganda” (10.1515/fmst-2024-0006).

To go back to Max and Chris’ comments about the lessening moral authority of Carolingian rulers; the problem with moral authority is that’s a depletable resource, lost with every wrongful act. And unlike with Merovingian kings, where some semblance of listening to bishops rather than ignoring or even murdering them, was the low threshold for a good Christian ruler, Charlemagne and Louis the Pious had set expectations for Christian behaviour by kings at a level that was hard for their successors to maintain. Although Charlemagne himself was probably a kin-killer, having his two small nephews “disappeared”, this was conveniently forgotten.

Collective acts of atonement was one way of raising the moral authority level, but that couldn’t work if the king himself or one of his close advisors was a notorious sinner. How could you have had a pious assembly or a synod praying for help against the Hungarians after 906 if Hatto of Mainz was still prominent at the event? The penitential machinery built up by earlier Carolingian rulers and reformers had to break down permanently at that point. Paradoxically, scapegoating, rather than being purely a way of maintaining collective innocence, may have been the only way to create a level moral playing field for the future admitting of collective guilt by assemblies and synods.

A prosopography of Jinty Nelson’s PhD students

My PhD supervisor and friend Janet (Jinty) Nelson died in October last year. There have been a lot of events to commemorate her, many of which I’ve taken part in. I’ve also written a obituary of her for History Workshop Journal, which I’ll post a link to when it appears. That’s why I haven’t yet written about her on this blog: I feel a bit written and talked out on the topic. But I do want to share now something I compiled when I was working on the obituary: a list of the PhDs completed with Jinty as supervisor.

What follows isn’t complete. King’s College London, where Jinty spent all her academic career says she supervised 32 doctoral students to completion and I haven’t found them all. But this is what I’ve got so far and also includes details (where I know them) of the supervisees’ current activities. (Their current activities are taken from publicly available sources, but I can remove/change them if there are privacy concerns). The thesis details themselves are taken from History Theses 1970-2014 (https://www.british-history.ac.uk/no-series/theses-1970-2014) and the KCL Research Portal (https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal), and I’ve included links to the full text of the thesis where this is available.

If you have any updates or more information about the 5 missing students/theses, please let me know in comments or via my KCL e-mail address.

1) 1981 The Dialogues of Gregory the Great in their late antique cultural background

Joan M. Petersen

Amazon blurb: Joan M. Petersen (1914-1994) was educated at Cheltenham Ladies College and St Anne’s College, Oxford. For many years she was Church history editor for the S.P.C.K., London. After her retirement from that position, she enrolled in the University of London and was awarded the Ph.D. Her book-length study of The Dialogues of Saint Gregory the Great in their Late Antique Cultural Background was published by the Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies, Toronto.

2) 1982 The career of Ebroin, mayor of the palace, c.657-680

Paul Fouracre (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Fouracre)

3) 1988 St. Peter Damian’s Vita Beati Romualdi: introduction, translation and analysis

Colin Ralph Phipps

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/saint-peter-damians-vita-beati-romualdi-introduction-translation-

4) 1989 Early medieval Welsh book production

Nicholas Hart Webb

5) 1991 Studies in pre-Conquest history of Glastonbury abbey

Matthew J. Blows

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/studies-in-the-pre-conquest-history-of-glastonbury-abbey

6) 1992 Lupus of Ferrieres

P. Elizabeth Lockwood

7) 1993 A comparative study of Ta`ifa states, c.1018-c.1094 (with special reference to Valencia and Zaragoza)

Saker A. Nusseibeh

Linked In: Chief Executive Officer, Federated Hermes – International (investment bank).

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/a-comparative-study-of-taifa-states-c1018-1094-with-special-refer

8) 1993 The Frankish church and women from the late 8th to the early 10th century: representation and reality.

Andrea M.E. Hodgson

Retired teacher living in Chorley?

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/the-frankish-church-and-women-from-the-late-eighth-to-the-early-t

9) 1993 The development of bookbinding structures in the early middle ages, during the period 3rd – 9th/10th centuries, as evidenced by extant binding structure from Egypt and Western Europe.

Vanessa C. Marshall

10) 1997 Practice of penance, c.900-c.1050

Sarah M. Hamilton (supervised with Anne Duggan) (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Hamilton_(historian))

11) 1998 Studies in representations and perceptions of the Carolingians in Italy, 774-875.

Geoffrey V.B West

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/studies-in-representations-and-perceptions-of-the-carolingians-in

12) 1999 Lincolnshire women in the 13th century.

Louise J. Wilkinson (supervised with David Carpenter) (https://staff.lincoln.ac.uk/a3afabb1-a098-4427-be1c-92046819d201)

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/thirteenth-century-women-in-lincolnshire

13) 1999 Rex pacificus: studies in royal peace-making in the early medieval West.

Paul J.E. Kershaw (https://history.virginia.edu/people/paul-kershaw)

14) 1999 The theology of secular rule: the legacy of Ambrose and Gregory.

David N. A. Hipshon

Linked in: Assistant Headteacher at St James Senior Boys’ School, London

15) 2000 The reign of Charles III ‘the Fat’ (876-88).

Simon J. Maclean (https://www.st-andrews.ac.uk/history/people/sm89/)

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/the-reign-of-charles-iii-the-fat-876-888

16) 2003 The career of the Empress Judith, 819-43.

Elizabeth F. Ward

Linked In: A level Psychology Tutor

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/the-career-of-the-empress-judith-819-843

17) 2005 Bishop Gerard I of Cambrai (1012-51) and the representation of authority in the Gesta episcoporum cameracensium.

Theo Riches

Now administrator at University of Kiel (https://www.uni-kiel.de/gf-praesidium/de/ansprechpartner/ansprechpartner)

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/bishop-gerard-i-of-cambrai-1012-1051-and-the-representation-of-au

18) 2005 Masculinity, nobility and the moral instruction of the Carolingian lay elite.

Rachel Stone

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/masculinity-nobility-and-the-moral-instruction-of-the-carolingian

19) 2005 The application of reform in France: the conciliar activity of Hugh, bishop of Die (1073-82), archbishop of Lyons (1082-1106) and legate to Gregory VII.

Kriston Rennie (Jinty took over as supervisor after death of Tim Reuter?) (https://www.unbc.ca/people/rennie-dr-kriston)

20) 2006 From St. Margaret to the Maid of Norway: queens and queenship in Scotland, 1066-1290.

Jessica Nelson

Linked in: Head of Collections Expertise and Engagement, National Archives

21) 2006 An edition and study of select sermons from the Carolingian sermonary of Salzburg

James McCune

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/an-edition-and-study-of-select-sermons-from-the-carolingian-sermo

22) 2007 Frankish legal formularies, c. 500-1000

 Alice Rio (https://www.history.ox.ac.uk/article/alice-rio-appointed-as-chichele-professor-of-medieval-history)

23) 2007 The Mercian Polity, 716-918

Alex Burghart (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alex_Burghart)

24) 2011 Transfers of property by the laity in Anglo-Saxon England: the disposition of property at death

Julie Mumby

Linked In: Operations Professional, St Albans

25) 2010 German influence on religious practice in Scandinavia, ‘c’.1000-1138

Text: Erik Niblaeus (https://www.asnc.cam.ac.uk/people/Erik.Niblaeus/)

https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/german-influence-on-religious-practice-in-scandinavia-c-1050-1150

26) 2012 Peter Damian and ‘the World’: asceticism, reform and society in 11th-century Italy. Michael R. Gledhill (supervised with Serena Ferente)

Now in US? https://snhu.academia.edu/MichaelGledhill

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/peter-damian-and-the-world-asceticism-reform-and-society-in-eleve

27) 2017 Adelaide of Turin (c.1014/24-1091): Imperial Politics and Regional Power in Eleventh-Century Northern Italy

Alison Creber (supervised with Serena Ferente)

Independent scholar? https://independentresearcher.academia.edu/AlisonCreber

Text: https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/en/studentTheses/adelaide-of-turin-c101424-1091

Community authoritarianism as “natural”

If, like me, you’ve spent a lot of your life in progressive/liberal circles, it’s easy to believe that any kind of authoritarianism is “unnatural”, alien to normal, healthy human behaviour. Sometimes voters’ desires for authoritarian policies are seen as due to their individual psychological problems, with a focus on the “authoritarian personality”. Sometimes, on the contrary, their views are seen as artificially created by exploitative right-wing politicians, capitalists and media. But authoritarianism is rarely seen as rational or justified in any way.

One of the reasons for this is how authoritarianism is defined, especially as it being seen as intrinsically “right-wing”. I am going to use here a modified version of the Political Compass model which distinguishes two axes: economic views (left v right) and  social views (authoritarian v libertarian).

My score on the Political Compass test, showing me as a left libertarian.

The compass model is usually applied to modern societies and that’s reflected in its examples and definitions of left-wing/right-wing/authoritarian/libertarian policies. But I think it can also be applied more generally to societies and communities. On the economic axis you distinguish between economic production by the community combined with community support of those in need (collectivism) and an ideology stressing economic self-reliance, in which both economic success and failure affect only an individual and their family. In terms of the other axis, you have a distinction between demands to adhere to community norms of behaviour (conformity) and demands for individual freedom from such community norms (individualism). This compass model can be applied to any polity from small hunter-gatherer bands upwards. The four quadrants produced by these two axes can be seen as communitarianism (collective and conforming), conservative (self-reliant and conforming), libertarian (self-reliant and individualistic) and progressive (collective and individualistic).

This understanding of the axes also has the advantage that it separates “authoritarianism” from economic and social hierarchies, by talking about adherence to community norms rather than obedience to authorities. There are some small-scale societies (such as early Aboriginal ones) that have very rigid taboos, but also low economic/social inequality. Communist societies, which supposedly have little economic inequality, often have extremely harsh punishments for certain offences.

On the other hand, the amount of authoritarianism in small-scale societies varies a lot. Eleanor Leacock, talking about the Naskapi people of subarctic Canada (Myths of Male Dominance, 1981, p. 42 comments:

In contradiction to a commonly encountered inference that egalitarianism among “primitive” peoples involves being pressed into a set mold by stern necessity, so that egalitarianism is achieved at the expense of individuality, one meets not merely a “broadminded” “tolerance” for idiosyncracies among the Naskapi, but a truly positive acceptance of them, as long as they do not threaten the existence of the group.

There are limits however: as authors such as Christopher Boehm have shown, prehistoric and modern egalitarian hunter-gatherers will use teasing/social shaming, ostracism and even occasionally murder to deal with members who are harmful to the group.

In terms of how societies develop historically, in the West you can see the sequence communitarian – conservative – libertarian – progressive. The economic egalitarianism of early hunter-gatherers gradually changes in some groups to permanent hierarchies.  That was then increased by a move to farming and storable grains, where those with food have less need to share with others because they have less need for reciprocity. (Anthropologists have contrasted such grain-based areas  with agricultural areas in other regions of the world where the staple crop, such as yams, cannot easily be stored and so surpluses are harder to accumulate).

Such conservative societies with strong social norms and considerable inequality were the norm for much of western history, until the Reformation and beyond. It was only then that first demands for small group religious liberty and then for individual sexual liberty developed. Such demands tended to come from groups and individuals who were relatively economically self-sufficient, either because they had access to their own agricultural land (as with American sects) or they were prosperous men (as with eighteenth-century libertines).

Progressive politics was the final type to emerge, with the gradual fusing from the nineteenth century onwards of a libertarianism that emphasized behavioural freedom but was unconcerned about economic inequality, with a Christian-inspired tradition of charity and economic support for all, including outcasts from the community. In some progressive circles that idea of charity lost its religious colouring and mutated into the socialist/communist slogan  “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs”.

Whereas communitarian approaches distinguish between the “deserving poor” and the “undeserving poor”, either in charitable giving or by making government benefits dependent on past contributions (as with pensions and unemployment benefit), progressive politics tends to focus on universal benefits to all in need, regardless of their behaviour.

Looked at in this way, it’s communitarianism that’s the “natural” state and progressive ideologies that are very recent developments. So why was there this sequence? More specifically, why did progressivism develop so much later than conservative ideology (norm-conforming but hierarchical), when they’re both obtained by relaxing one form of constraint on communitarian societies? In conservative societies there is less of an emphasis on communal economic sharing and more on keeping what an individual has “earned”, at the price of less support in times of difficulty. In contrast, progressivism keeps the sharing aspect but removes the need for adherence to community norms. (Libertarianism relaxes both constraints, but historically very few groups have been libertarians because the collective action problems are so great that they haven’t flourished: for one example see the Free Town Project and its bear problems.

From a communitarian point of view, conservativism and progressivism look like two failure modes of community. Conservativism is a failure of selfishness, where those with more resources either withdraw from sharing with the community or try to dominate them. But often the original community will still survive; you can still have peasant or working-class economic and social solidarity even if the dominant classes don’t share those values.

Progressivism as a failure mode for communitarianism is potentially more dangerous, however, in that by allowing freeloaders (those who take from the community but do not give to it or actively harm it), they can destroy the entire community by discouraging mutual solidarity. Note that the original communitarianism of egalitarian hunter gatherers does not require a positive balance of giving to the community rather than taking from it. Less competent hunters aren’t seen as mooching off the best ones, as libertarian or conservative thought would have it, as long as those less good hunters are still contributing to the best of their abilities.  What causes hostility is those who are slacking, as well as thieves and cheats.

When progressive approaches initially developed, therefore, there was an emphasis on the “conversion” of freeloaders. This was literally the case in Christianity, where the hope was that anti-social outcasts could be reformed into “pillars of society” (note the metaphor). And the socially progressive non-religious movements that developed from the nineteenth century onwards had the same basic idea: benevolent intervention would transform potentially anti-social children and adults into better people who would then in turn start benefiting the community. You can still see this in the New Labour slogan: “Tough  on crime and tough on the cause of crime.”

But at some point in the twenty-first century, mainstream progressivism seems to have decided that to reform those harming the community or transgressing its norms was oppressive and wrong: they should be economically supported without any demands made on them. This view had a number of roots. One was an awareness, particularly after World War II, that some people were wrongfully excluded from the community for matters beyond their control (the colour of their skin) or for transgressing norms that they could not justifiably be expected to change (their religion, their sexual orientation). Another was the belief, held by some radicals from the 1960s onwards, that all norm enforcement, both by the state and by social pressure, was oppressive.

These were mostly fringe views until what I’ll call as shorthand the “Great Awokening” from the 2010s onwards, when they became more widespread in progressive circles. You could often see in practice, for example, that those designated as “oppressed” were allowed to use any language or tactics they liked in protests and attempted cancellations, while any liberals who made even careful objections were attacked. Social media is not the world, of course, but it’s noticeable how any attempt to argue for community norms (such as against the playing of loud music on public transport) is now met by responses that such norms are oppressive.

In the same way, a number of progressives see attempts to get immigrants to integrate/assimilate as racist. (Here’s Afua Hirsch on the topic, in a 2019 article where hilariously she was upset that the English Defence League wasn’t opposed to her presence in Britain). And there’s also an acceptance by some progressives of crimes such as shoplifting combined with a hostility towards the police that encourages freeloaders and the anti-social.

As I’ve tried to show, communitarianism is a variety of “authoritarianism” that’s both very strongly rooted in history and intellectually coherent. It’s also held by a substantial number of people in the UK, including those who are willing to support economic redistribution. If progressives are going to get into power and their policies enacted, they therefore need to take the problem of freeloaders and those who do not adhere to community norms seriously, rather than only focus on individual rights.

Immigration is the most charged issue for British communitarians at the moment, and it’s fair to say that an ideology that focuses on the community is never going to be as enthusiastic on immigrants as those which are more individually focused (libertarianism, progressivism and even conservatism to a certain extent). Rather than immediately brand any opposition to immigration as racist, it’s worth looking at in terms of community norms for accepting any incomer, whether they’re an immigrant or not. The questions then become: why does the incomer want to leave their own community and why do they want to join this specific community?

To a communitarian, focused on communal belonging rather than individual economic gain, an acceptable answer to why you leave your own community is that their community no longer exists or is in grave peril, e.g. a refugee situation. They are likely to be a lot less sympathetic to economic migrants or to refugees where only part of a family comes, suggesting that the peril to the community is not that grave.

Similarly, the acceptable answer for a communitarian as to why you want to join a new community/emigrate to a particular country is that you admire that community/country and its norms. Some Conservatives (such as Boris Johnson) and many libertarians have argued for immigration on a transactional basis, because it makes the receiving country richer, but such a transactional approach is a threat to communal norms and not a good basis for forming a community. An immigrant (or an ex-pat) who will equally happily go to the UK, Dubai or the USA does not show the kind of loyalty that creates strong communities.

Nor does an immigrant who does not want to integrate. One of the reasons that Muslims are currently a particular flashpoint in the UK is the perception (justified in some cases but not others) that their loyalty is to their religion and the ummah more than to Britain. It is the same accusation that was previously made towards British Catholics and Jews, both groups that have now successfully integrated. It’s certainly possible to develop a form of British Islam that does combine adherence to British norms with continued religious practice. But that isn’t helped when progressives claim either that there are no British cultural norms or that those that exist are bad. Here’s Afua Hirsch:

It struck me as the most chilling and insidious form of racism of all: he [the English Defence League spokesman] was, in effect, saying, “People who come to England are acceptable to the extent they attempt to mimic us.” Underpinning that is a confidence in one culture’s inherent superiority over others.

Communitarianism, right since the hunter-gatherer days, has presumed that their community’s culture is the best one. For progressives to insist on cultural relativism harms attempts to win widespread support for immigration. I now think that the US patriotism that I once found slightly bizarre is actually a good way of creating this sense of a culture that immigrants might be drawn to and into which they can integrate without losing their original identity.

I’m less progressive politically than I was when I started this blog twenty years ago, but I’m still not instinctively a communitarian (as my Political Compass ratings above show). But I think I have come to understand more the rational reasons for communitarians to have their particular forms of authoritarianism, and the practical problems that progressivism faces in trying to keep a society functioning. Since there are a sizeable section of communitarians in the UK electorate, just berating or ignoring them isn’t a winning strategy. If progressives want to take power and improve this country (and it needs improving) they will have to find constructive and plausible answers to such questions about belonging to and contributing to a country as a community.

Neolocality and its effects on women

Family forms

Emmanuel Todd, The Explanation of Ideology: Family Structures and Social Systems (Blackwell, 1985, French original from 1983) was written a long time before the author became a prominent contrarian political pundit. But the book was also academically controversial when it appeared, making very broad claims about how historic family types affected modern political ideologies and electoral outcomes in countries across the world.

Todd’s structural anthropology breaks down family types on three axes: equality/inequality, authority/liberty and exogamy/endogamy. It’s a very male-centred approach, so this is almost all focused on the experiences of fathers and sons, making some of Todd’s definitions idiosyncratic. Equality and inequality concerns whether all sons inherit equally from their father or whether the father has testamentary freedom to favour one son over others. Authority/liberty is about whether one or more of the sons continues to live in the family home after marriage or whether they all establish separate households. Todd also breaks exogamy/endogamy down in three ways: preferred marriage to parallel cousins (father’s brother’s daughter), to cross-cousins (father’s sister’s daughter) or a prohibition on cousin marriage.

Todd starts with four kinds of families found in premodern Europe, all exogamous:

  • Community family where all married sons remain in the father’s household and the brothers share inheritance equally (authority and equality)
  • Authoritarian family (in other literature called stem family) where only one married son remains in father’s household while the others disperse and there is unequal inheritance by brothers (authority and inequality)
  • Egalitarian nuclear family where sons form new household on marriage and brothers share the inheritance equally (liberty and equality)
  • Absolute nuclear family where sons form new household on marriage and brothers do not share the inheritance equally (liberty and inequality)

Todd then adds in an additional dimension based on exogamy/endogamy and identifies seven ideal anthropological types of family structure. He divides the world into regions based on the predominance of these and then proceeds to make claims about which political ideologies fit best with these. It’s often unclear what evidence he’s using or what period he’s talking about, so it can be hard to be sure whether he’s basing his classification on anthropological studies, premodern historical data or nineteenth and twentieth century censuses. Some of his claims about how family structures affect political views are more plausible than others, especially since he sees several possible ideologies as associated with each family type:

  • Exogamous community family: communism
  • Authoritarian family: political Catholicism, social democracy, Nazism
  • Nuclear family (egalitarian or absolute): liberalism, non-totalitarian dictatorship
  • Endogamous community family: Arab socialism, fundamentalism
  • Asymmetrical community family: caste system, communism
  • Anomic family: individualism, communitarianism
  • African systems: military regimes.

I do think there is something interesting lurking about how family dynamics affects people’s wider expectations of society, but it’s hard to pin it down as specifically as Todd tries to do. In this post, however, I’m less interested in the political aspects of Todd’s argument and more in one of his axes: (male) authority/liberty as reflected in neolocality or instead residence with one’s father after marriage.

The anthropological literature tends to conflate neolocality with the nuclear family in somewhat unhelpful ways. Firstly, you can have the nuclear family in non-settled societies, such as hunter-gatherer societies, without having neolocality in the sense of shared or separate dwellings. Secondly, in societies with low life expectancy, you can end up with predominantly nuclear families in practice even if the ideal is Todd’s community family (all married sons remain in the father’s household) or authoritarian family (only one married son remains in the father’s household).

For example, here are figures from households in Nippur under the Kassite dynasty (taken from a Middle Babylonian collection of administrative texts, legal documents, and letters from more than five hundred texts and fragments dating between 1359 and 1224 BC), compared to Medieval Tuscany and Roman Egypt.

Table 7.2 Percentages of attested households by type for the servile-worker population in Kassite Nippur compared with general populations of medieval Tuscany and Roman Egypt

 Medieval TuscanyRoman EgyptKassite Nippur
Simple-family household65.154.473.2
Extended-family household12.619.08.5
Multiple-family household22.226.518.3

(Widell 2013), Table 7.2

It’s plausible that the multiple-family household, containing two or more conjugal (nuclear) families is the preferred form in all these societies, because otherwise you’d expect it to have near zero occurrence, but it’s still relatively uncommon for purely practical reasons. Relatively few men, in particular, live long enough to get to be grandfathers. That also makes it hard in terms of evidence to distinguish virilocality (wife moves to live with husband) from patrilocality (wife moves to live with husband, who is himself living with his father).

You can’t therefore always easily tell a nuclear family from a community/authoritarian family in certain stages of their cycle and that’s a particular issue with more limited evidence. For example, the “oldest nuclear family” was identified based on a shared grave (grave 99) containing a man, a woman and two children biologically related to both of them (Haak et al 2008). These graves probably reflect the aftermath of a violent raid on the settlement, with the burials carried out by  survivors of the raid. The four family members could have been a permanent nuclear family, the start of a planned community family, or just the part of an existing community family that died. But given the age at death of the man (40-60), woman (35-50) and the children (one 4-5, one 8-9), it’s also at least possible that you instead have here a different part of a community family being buried together: a paternal grandfather, his daughter in law and her two sons.

It’s also often difficult to distinguish patrilocality from neolocality if sons are setting up home near their father. (In fact, I’ve seen some definitions of patrilocality which include sons in separate dwellings but who are still working the land/farm together with their father). In archaeological contexts, patrilocality tends to be identified by strontium isotope analysis showing incoming women who’ve grown up elsewhere, for example, which will only show a general region. Even using ancient DNA from graveyards to produce family trees from skeletons isn’t going to distinguish between sons living in the same settlement as their father and sons living in the same household as their father.

Neolocality and women

Before wide-scale censuses, it’s therefore hard to be sure exactly who is living in the same household. But I think that neolocality (in the sense of separate dwellings, even if in the same settlement) may have been significant for wives’ experience in two ways. Firstly, it seems likely to lessen one form of domestic abuse: one where a new wife is essentially regarded as a servant or even a slave of her mother-in-law, having to do her bidding. When such a hierarchy of adult women within a household is a life-cycle norm, it perpetuates and reinforces poor domestic treatment. After all, if you have been subservient as a young bride, becoming a mother-in-law is when you get your chance of domination in return. Why would you want to give that up? In contrast, if you’re not sharing a household with your in-laws, you’re probably not preparing food jointly and eating together all the time, which is the most obvious setting for such hierarchical abuse.

Neolocality also potentially causes greater divergence between male family members’ economic interests. In a community family, there should be in theory no difference between fathers’ and sons’ interests in the household economy, since they’re all part of it. In an authoritarian family, there is a difference between the economic interests of the sons who won’t inherit the main property and the one favoured son; Todd points out how this weakens fraternal solidarity. But again, the financial interests of the father and the son who remains are similar.

In contrast, with neolocality (at least once there is no longer a joint farm/homestead), adult sons do not necessarily share the economic interests of their father. They may be concerned to use resources to set up their own households sooner even at the expense of the long-term benefit of the father’s property. And once they’ve left the father’s household, they have less interest in how that is doing economically.

In such a situation, especially if divorce is difficult, a wife becomes the only person who theoretically does share the same interest in her husband’s household economy throughout their married life. Their household wealth is tied together, which makes a wife her husband’s most reliable agent/deputy, if the legal system will allow that. She potentially has less incentive to cheat her husband’s business than either an unrelated agent/manager or another male relative of his has. A number of western European legal systems from the Romans onwards have therefore accepted this idea of a woman acting on her husband’s behalf in certain circumstances.

The origins of neolocality

Todd was interested in modern political patterns in The Explanation of Ideology, so in that book he didn’t discuss the historical development of these different family forms. Some of his later work may do so, but I haven’t looked at that. Here’s his 1983 map of European family types:

Todd himself claims (pp. 196-197) that looking worldwide the modern locations of family patterns and the ideologies they support are more or less arbitrary and they don’t match specific ecological zones or economic models. He does admit, however, that the community family model areas look mostly contiguous, with a probable origin in western Asia. Recent anthropological attempts to look at the evolution of marriage locality suggest that there’s considerable swapping between different patterns and that these changes aren’t consistent in direction, but vary between language groups (see e.g. Moravec et al 2018). Even that article probably underestimates the variety and change, not taking in account, for example, emerging evidence for Celtic matrilocality (Cassidy et al, 2025).

All that suggests that modern patterns (nineteenth century and later) reflect initial ecological constraints that are then substantially modified by cultural transmission from elsewhere (either voluntary or via conquest), probably with a lot of path-dependence thrown in for good measure. Judith Bennett (Bennett 2019), for example, discussing some of the earliest detailed evidence of medieval neolocality, from thirteenth-century England comments (p. 336):

I doubt that we will ever have more than a remote, elite-based view – from ecclesiastical, royal, and seigneurial sources – of the emergence of neolocal marriage in the English countryside. It is clear that manorial policies could favour nuclear households (for example, by insisting on primogeniture and taxing landless adults), and it is possible that the extensive cooperation required by open fields and common rights generated a similar pressure from neighbours. Other causes and precise chronology await further research, but we can be confident that, if this sort of marriage was already common in rural England at any time between 1086 and 1250, it was then much easier for people to achieve, simply because these were decades of rural expansion and land reclamation.

In other words, once patterns have become established they may persist despite ecological and economic changes. (Moravec at al 2018) reckons that in Indo-European groups, transitions between marital residence states happened on average around every 420 years, while Todd’s endogamous community family survives largely in (some) regions conquered by Muslims from the seventh century onwards.

The problem of identifying origins then becomes that for most of western Europe we have very little demographic evidence from households before the late Middle Ages. What I’m going to do here, therefore, is pull together some fragments to try and produce a hypothesis about where north-western European neolocality came from.

It’s worth starting with the basic ecological/economic constraints. Community family structures are the most obvious basic model for settled patrilineal agriculturalists. In general, it’s more resource efficient for independent peasants to have a community family structure (in terms of dwellings, food preparation and giving an additional labour force for the holding). It’s also easier for such a household to defend itself from external enemies than if living in scattered nuclear families. In areas with restricted additional agricultural land available (such as late medieval England), neolocal marriage is not the ideal strategy, because it makes it so hard to marry.

From that angle, the stem/authoritarian family looks like an obvious if unfair adaptation of the community family when there’s not enough land to divide up, or at least not without a severe shock to standard of living or social status. Fauve-Chemoux 2006 argues that stem families tend to be associated with  agro-pastoral mountainous surroundings.

Neolocality, in contrast, only makes economic sense when there’s a lot of additional land available. As Sabine Huebner (Huebner 2017) comments (p. 12):

From studies by family historians, sociologists, and social anthropologists on societies of early modern and modern periods, we know that composition and size of household depended on the economic basis on which the family made its living, because different forms of property and economic activities required different kinds of labor. In regions with low population density and abundance of land, neolocality was common and young couples established their own households upon marriage. In those areas where land was scarce there was a tendency to form complex households with several generations living under one roof. The fact that exigencies rarely changed with time or political rulers, afforded family forms some regional continuity.

For the ancient and medieval period, however, we also need to take cultural diffusion and/or conquest seriously as causes for change, because they take peoples and practices out of their original ecological zones. The most likely reason for an initial spread of community families (including into regions with a lot of spare land, like Russia) is the influence of Proto-Indo-European speakers. Haubrichs 2007 discusses kinship terms in PIE as well as proto-Germanic and PIE includes terms that make most sense within a community family, such as the term for grandfather also meaning head of the household, and for paternal uncle as a “little father”.

There also seems to be agreement that the western Roman elite were neolocal, although Roman Egypt, the only part of the Roman world for which we have reliable evidence at household level, had a community family model among the non-elite. We have very little evidence for non-elite family structure in ancient and medieval Western Europe, but the two Carolingian period studies of peasant households in these terms that I’m aware of (Devroey 2003, pp. 64-64, Ring 1979) show relatively high levels of joint families in a couple of estates in the Paris basin and central Italy, suggesting that the community family may have been the peasant ideal then.

On the other hand, as Bennett shows, peasant family structures  could easily be constrained by ecology or by lords’ preferences. Elite family structure can probably tell us about the desired family model, even if it’s not one that’s necessarily obtainable by many families. In other words, if elites want community families, you should expect to see them exist.

If you look at Todd’s map of Europe in very broad terms of cultural flows, then one possible schema would be an initial spread of PIE-speaking community family cultures from the east, followed many centuries later by western Roman neolocal influence that leaves a mark in e.g. Romania, but doesn’t dislodge authoritarian/stem families in more mountainous regions. That might possibly explain elite neolocality in northern France, which Le Jan 1995 pp. 334-339 shows can be seen in Merovingian and Carolingian sources. But it doesn’t strike me as an adequate explanation for elite neolocality in England, which was much less Romanized and then had a post-Roman influx of culturally dominant Angles, Saxons etc, from areas of authoritarian families.

Instead, it’s worth looking at sources of land in early medieval England and Francia. Charles-Edwards 1997 p. 195 points out the existence of a norm by the early eighth century that noblemen received royal grants of land for life at the age of about twenty-five to enable them to settle down and marry. That pattern of court service by young noblemen followed by royal landed reward is also known from seventh-century Merovingian kingdoms, and provides an obvious context for a cultural shift to elite neolocal marriage. If royal favour/service gets you land and that favour is possibly available to several brothers, then you no longer need to stay in your father’s household until his death.

There’s also a small amount of archaeological evidence that might suggest a gradual move away from elite joint families, as shown by Loveluck 2013 pp. 253-254:

By the tenth and eleventh centuries, the principal venue for public feasting was a large hall at both palaces and important estate centres, in both West Francia and Anglo-Saxon England…The majority of elite secular centres possessed multiple rectangular buildings for residence and dining, between the seventh and ninth centuries, in both West Francia and England. Hence, the emergence more generally of a focal core of principal large hall range and ancillary residential buildings was a significant change in the internal social organisation of settlements.

This hypothesis also suggests why the change to neolocality happens in specific kinds of early medieval polities only: “weak” states based on the redistribution of land as a royal favour, rather than strong states offering mainly paid office as a reward, where it’s likely that only one son from a family will get rich and the communal family then forms around him.

That also makes me wonder if Roman neolocality developed for similar reasons. There’s no obvious cultural influence from elsewhere that would explain why they developed that model, but if the early republic was handing out land in the Italian peninsula to citizen-soldiers to allow them to marry, that might develop the pattern. The varied power of post-Roman rulers might also possibly explain the survival of the community family in northern Italy, since Lombard rulers had much less land to distribute than Frankish or English ones did. But, of course, we can’t be sure when community families developed in Tuscany, since we have so little early medieval data.

Given this lack of data on household composition, I don’t think we’re ever going to know exactly when and why neolocality developed and spread in some parts of western Europe. But I think, as I’ve discussed above, we can say something about its effect on wives, and that suggests again that customs which develop to advantage some men can have positive effects for some women.

Bibliography

Bennett, Judith M. 2019. “Wretched girls, wretched boys and the European Marriage Pattern in England (c. 1250–1350).” Continuity and Change 34 (3): 315-347. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0268416019000328.

Cassidy, Lara M., Miles Russell, Martin Smith, Gabrielle Delbarre, Paul Cheetham, Harry Manley, Valeria Mattiangeli, Emily M. Breslin, Iseult Jackson, Maeve McCann, Harry Little, Ciarán G. O’Connor, Beth Heaslip, Daniel Lawson, Phillip Endicott, and Daniel G. Bradley. 2025. “Continental influx and pervasive matrilocality in Iron Age Britain.” Nature 637 (8048): 1136-1142. https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-024-08409-6.

Charles-Edwards, Thomas 1997. “Anglo-Saxon kinship revisited.” In The Anglo-Saxons from the migration period to the eighth century: an ethnographic perspective, edited by John Hines, In Studies in Historical Archaeoethnology, 2, 171-204. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell.

Devroey, Jean-Pierre. 2003. Économie rurale et société dans l’Europe franque (VI-IX siècles). Paris: Belin.

Fauve-Chamoux, Antoinette. 2006. “Family reproduction and stem-family system: From Pyrenean valleys to Norwegian farms.” History of the Family 11: 171-184. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.1016/j.hisfam.2006.11.007.

Haak, Wolfgang, Guido Brandt, Hylke N. de Jong, Christian Meyer, Robert Ganslmeier, Volker Heyd, Chris Hawkesworth, Alistair W. G. Pike, Harald Meller, and Kurt W. Alt. 2008. “Ancient DNA, strontium isotopes, and osteological analyses shed light on social and kinship organization of the Later Stone Age.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 105: 18226-18231. https://doi.org/doi:10.1073/pnas.0807592105.

Haubrichs, Wolfgang. 2007. “Germanic and Gothic kinship terminology.” In The Ostrogoths from the migration period to the sixth century: an ethnographic perspective, edited by Sam J. Barnish and Federico Marazzi, 143-182. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press.

Huebner, Sabine R. 2017. “A Mediterranean family? A comparative approach to the ancient world.” In Mediterranean families in antiquity: households, extended families, and domestic space, edited by Sabine R. Huebner and Geoffrey S. Nathan, 1-26. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

Le Jan, Régine. 1995. Famille et pouvoir dans le monde franc (VIIe – Xe siècle): essai d’anthropologie sociale.Histoire ancienne et médiévale, 33. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne.

Moravec, Jiří C., Quentin Atkinson, Claire Bowern, Simon J. Greenhill, Fiona M. Jordan, Robert M. Ross, Russell Gray, Stephen Marsland, and Murray P. Cox. 2018. “Post-marital residence patterns show lineage-specific evolution.” Evolution and Human Behavior 39: 594-601. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.1016/j.evolhumbehav.2018.06.002.

Ring, Richard R. 1979. “Early medieval peasant households in central Italy.” Journal of Family History 4: 2-25.

Todd, Emmanuel. 1985. The explanation of ideology: family structures and social systems. Translated by David Garrioch. Oxford: Basil Blackwell.

Widell, Magnus, McGuire Gibson, T. J. Wilkinson, Benjamin Studevent-Hickman, and Jonathan Tenney. 2013. “Household and village in early Mesopotamia.” In Models of Mesopotamian landscapes: how small-scale processes contributed to the growth of early civilizations, edited by T. J. Wilkinson, McGuire Gibson and Magnus Widell, In BAR International Series 2552, 112-129. Oxford: Archaeopress.

CSI Carantania

Note: this blog post was originally written for the Turbulent Priests project blog (https://turbulentpriests.sites.sheffield.ac.uk/blog/csi-carantania) in 2020. The translations have been slightly updated from that version.

At some point in the mid-ninth century an auxiliary bishop called Osbald had a serious problem with a turbulent priest in Carantania (later the duchy of Carinthia in southern Austria and northern Slovenia). Osbald was told to investigate whether or not this priest was responsible for the death of a deacon. We don’t know the outcome, but a look now at this very, very cold case is revealing about justice and clerics in the early Middle Ages.

All we know about this case comes from part of a letter by Pope Nicholas I (which dates it to 858-867). The original letter does not survive, but an excerpt from it is included in later canon law collections. That means that we don’t know why Osbald had probably written directly to the Pope rather than to his superior, the Archbishop of Salzburg. Osbald, whose name suggests Anglo-Saxon origins, was a chorbishop, an additional subordinate bishop helping to administer the vast diocese of Salzburg. (As an indication of its size, the later suffragan diocese covering Carantania/Carinthia had its first seat at Gurk, 120 miles away from Salzburg).

Pope Nicholas’ reply, however, demanded the involvement not only of the far-off Archbishop of Salzburg, but a considerably wider group of ecclesiastics. Here’s the first part of the surviving text:

Let your sanctity apply yourself to persuading your bishop to unite together with himself the canonical number of colleagues, that is six brothers and fellow-bishops from neighbouring provinces, and with them deciding, joined to you, diligently apply yourselves to investigating and take care to examine carefully, with all striving, in order that you able to find whether the same deacon, who it is reported has died, died from a blow (percussio) by the priest named now [elsewhere in the letter] or from breaking his neck.

This had now turned into a complex detective and legal operation, which probably also involved some difficult logistics. So why had Osbald got the Pope involved in the first place and why was all this investigation needed to work out the deacon’s cause of death? Hints of an answer come in the next section of Nicholas’ letter:

And if indeed he was not beaten to death (ad mortem percussus est) by the aforementioned priest, but rather fell from his horse [and] died of a broken neck, according to your judgement announce an appropriate penance for the priest for his reckless blow, and let him be suspended for some time from the solemnities of mass. After this he should once more be returned to priestly office.

But if that deacon truly died from whatever blow by that priest, we decree that this one is for no reason to minister in a priestly way, since, even if he did not have the wish to kill, nevertheless the fury and indignation by which an action produced those deadly things are to curbed in many ways in everyone, but especially in God’s ministers, and to be condemned everywhere.

This suggests that the case may have involved what modern lawyers would describe as a chain of causation. The question may have been not simply whether the deacon had died from falling off his horse, but whether the priest’s attack had led to that fall in some way. Many possible scenarios can be imagined here (and imagination is all we can go on, given the lack of detail). Had the deacon already been on horseback when a blow had disrupted his control of his horse? Had he jumped on a horse (perhaps not his own) and ridden away hastily to escape further violence from the priest?

Or had the priest’s attack happened at some earlier point, leaving the deacon suffering longer-term ill effects, perhaps via the aftereffects of concussion or even brain damage? As a possible parallel, in 864, Charles, the son of the West Frankish king Charles the Bald was struck in the head with a sword by a friend during some horseplay. He suffered from fits as a result and died a year later (Annales Bertiniani, 864, 865). The verb used to describe Charles’ injuring (percutio) is the same one used for the priest’s attack on the deacon; it’s not therefore possible to be sure whether the priest had inflicted a single blow or a sustained beating.

It’s unlikely that Osbald and the other bishops were able to investigate the case thoroughly and discover the truth, in the way that Nicholas wanted. Even if there had been witnesses to the attack, it would have been extremely difficult to get them to Salzburg, the most likely place for any episcopal judgement to take place. And without witnesses or forensic evidence, the only testimony available would have been from the priest himself. Dead deacons tell no tales.

Our modern categories of criminal law/civil law/church law or law as against penance are inadequate for describing this case. We don’t know whether the priest had paid wergild for the deacon’s death or not. There’s no mention of it in the portion of the letter that survives, but any such act wouldn’t necessarily have decided the issue for church leaders. What both Pope Nicholas and Osbald were concerned about was a complex blend of the subjective issues of the priest’s intentions and motivation and the objective effects of his acts, concerns common to many different legal and penitential systems.

But there’s a final twist to this story that takes it beyond purely legal courts and penitential judgements. Nicholas ends the surviving section of the letter with a judgement on a slightly different aspect:

But if indeed the priest should perhaps make clear to Your Zealousness that he is guilty (noxius), we order that such a benefice should be conceded by his church to him, from which he and his (et ipse et sui) may be able to have enough compensation for their maintenance.

This looks at first sight like some incongruous form of plea-bargaining: why should a guilty man be rewarded? One canonical collection has the priest making clear that he is obnoxius (which could mean either “guilty” or “submissive/compliant”). The original editor, however, preferred noxius and I think he’s right.

It’s instructive here to bring in a second letter that Nicholas sent in response to another question from Osbald. This question was whether clerics who had killed a pagan in self-defence should be allowed to remain in their current grade or advance to a higher one. Nicholas’ response was firmly worded. He gave no-one licence to kill and he allowed no “soldier of Christ” (miles Christi) to defend himself other than the way Christ had defended himself, i.e. no resistance was allowed. If a cleric of the rank of priest or above should kill a pagan, the Pope advised him to consider giving up his office, rather than risking his soul. (It is interesting that Nicholas advises this but does not specifically decree it as a canon that must be followed).

Carantania was on the edge of east Francia; it was a region where potentially dangerous pagans might well be found. It was also a region undergoing missionary activity throughout the ninth century, carried out by missions that were sometimes rivals: operations subject to the Catholic dioceses of Salzburg and Passau and also slightly later efforts by the Byzantine missionaries SS. Cyril and Methodius. A text from the 870s called the Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum stressed the rights of Salzburg and included a reference to Osbald’s earlier missionary work.

In this missionary context, we need to consider the existence of another “court”: the court of public opinion. Whatever the details of the priest’s attack on the deacon, he was hardly setting a good example for a barely Christianised population, any more than priests who had shed the blood of pagans even in self-defence were. Nicholas had harsh words for priests who had killed in self-defence, but he did not specifically attempt to remove them from office. The suspicion must be that the pope similarly hoped that Osbald might be able to “buy off” the angry priest from his office, whose scandalous behaviour might otherwise offend or deter new converts. It is possible that, as happened frequently in other regions, the priest was himself from a prominent local family. The passing reference made to the priest’s dependents might indicate a married man, but it might also indicate a priest rich enough to own unfree people personally.

This cold case may therefore end by revealing further injustice, but it reflects the realities of the period. Any attempt by the church authorities to deal with a badly-behaved “turbulent priest” in the early Middle Ages always had to consider whether more harm than good to the church’s reputation could result from a disciplinary process.

Text of Nicholas’ letter(s) from MGH Epistolae 6, pp. 660-661:

(Although they are treated as part of one letter (no. 142) in the MGH edition, the Conversio Bagoariorum et Carantanorum refers to two letters sent by Nicholas to Osbald, so I have regarded them as separate).

(1) Studeat sanctitas tua persuadere episcopo tuo sibi canonicum sociare numerum collegarum, id est sex ex vicinis provinciis fratres et coepiscopos suos; quibus tecum iunctis, et decernentibus diligenter investigare, et omni annisu scrutari procurate, quatinus invenire valeatis utrum percussione iam nominati presbyteri, an cervicis fractione idem diaconus, ut fertur, extinctus est.

Et si quidem a saepefato presbytero non ad mortem percussus est, sed ex equo cadens cervice fracta interiit, secundum arbitrium vestrum pro percussione incaute agenti presbytero paenitentiam competentem indicate, et aliquanto tempore a missarum solempniis suspendatur, denuo ad sacerdotale post haec rediturus officium.

Quodsi veraciter qualicumque percussione istius presbyteri ille mortuus est diaconus, nulla hunc ratione ministrare sacerdotis more decernimus, quoniam, etsi voluntatem occidendi non habuit, furor tamen et indignatio ex quibus motio illa mortifera prodiit, in omnibus, sed praecipue in Dei ministris multipliciter inhibentur, atque ubique dampnantur.

Verum si presbyter adeo vestro studio noxius forte claruerit, praecipimus, ut tale beneficium sibi ecclesiae suae concedatur, quo et ipse et sui sufficiens possint habere suae sustentationis solacium.

(2) De his clericis pro quibus consuluisti, scilicet qui se defendendo paganum occiderunt, si postea per paenitentiam emundati possint ad pristinum gradum redire aut ad altiorem ascendere, scito nos nullam occasionem dare, nec ullam tribuere licentiam eis quemlibet hominem quolibet modo occidendi.

Non igitur licentiam damus militibus Christi aliter se defendere quam ipse in se monstravit Christus, illis dumtaxat, qui clericatus funguntur officio quique familiarius in castris militantur eis, nec occidendi eis prorsus tribuimus facultatem.

Verum si contigerit, et clericus sacerdotalis ordinis saltem paganum occiderit, multum sibi consulit, si ab officio sacerdotali recesserit, satiusque est, illi in hac vita Domino sub inferiori habitu inreprehensibiliter famulari, quam alte indebite appetendo dampnabiliter in profundum dimergi.